


Read My Mind

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 00:58:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn's never really been good at talking to people.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Read My Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Based entirely off of this poem: http://ao-oa.tumblr.com/post/34566429882
> 
> disclaimer: this is entirely fictional, isn't meant to infer anything about these actual people. don't share this with anyone that it's written about, please

Zayn’s never really been good at talking to people.  
  
  
He supposes that started to change once fate took his life in its hands. He had always been quiet, reserved; the band started to bring out the best in him – bit by bit – until his shell had completely cracked and he was bared to the world.  
  
  
Now, he’s much more personable, much more likeable – he knows this because the boys always look at him shyly through their eyelashes when he says something nice, always laugh and slap at his back when he cracks a joke or says something cheeky. He knows this because he’s had girlfriends, and each one seemed to think the world of him – they all seem to think the world of him.  
  
  
  
They all look at him like he shines with the stars now; a bright light against the darkest of backdrops.  
  
  
And he owes it all to them. There are four other lads next to him; four boys that make him feel breathlessly happy, like nothing before all of this really mattered. Like his entire life had just been a build-up for this moment, with these four boys next to him.  
  
  
And he’s better at talking to people – he really is. Just today he had told a random girl passing by on the street that she had pretty eyes. He had bought her her morning coffee – one cream, one sugar. He found out she lived in an apartment overlooking Times Square and she was originally from Boston, Massachusetts. She was writing for magazines and hoped to publish a novel one day – and her boyfriend was really supportive of all of it. And Zayn had walked away that day, a little saddened by the exchange, but entirely grateful of what this band had given him. Five years ago, he would have let her walk by, would have looked at her eyes and thought to himself, “ _God, what gorgeous eyes – but she wouldn’t want to hear that from me_.”  
  
  
He still has fragments of his old self hidden inside of him; it’s these pieces that shine when he doesn’t want them to. He still keeps to himself a lot; it’s noticed in the way he’s the quiet one in their interviews, the one that everyone seems to know about the least.  
  
  
Zayn has a sketchpad balanced on the arm of the sofa and is twirling a pencil between his fingers. He looks up every once in a while to absorb a few details, closes his eyes and lets his fingers work, and he thinks his drawing is coming out nicely. Huge eyes and lush lips and a head full of hair he wouldn’t mind running his fingers through.  
  
  
He looks up just as Harry catches his eye, and he averts his gaze, stares his sketchpad and sighs. When he looks up a few seconds later, Harry is still staring, and he doesn’t know whether to look at his lap or smile. Because it’s Harry – _it’s always been Harry_ , he thinks – and his stomach is spinning in the wildest way.  
  
  
He decides to close his sketchpad and to take a very long nap.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
“Have you been working on any drawings lately?” It’s early in the morning and Zayn is uncharacteristically awake. Harry sits by his side in the car, palms wrapped around a cup of tea.  
  
  
Zayn nods, doesn’t say much, because Zayn’s never really been good at talking to people.  
  
  
“Maybe I can see them sometime, yeah?” Harry’s looking at him earnestly and those green eyes are shining, a hint of curiosity and a gleam of playfulness. He reaches out to tap the sketchpad that sits on Zayn’s lap – it’s always sitting on his lap, just in case he finds any bit of inspiration – and their fingers brush.  
  
  
Zayn nods again, and the car pulls up to the venue and they’re all shuffled inside. He’s the last to go in, watching as Harry leads the pack. When Liam notices he’s lagging and claps him on the back, he tells Liam he needs a bit of space, and he knows Liam will convey the message to the other boys. He finds a small area with just the right amount of privacy and begins to draw.  
  
  
His finished product is a drawing of a hand with long fingers, brushing over a smaller hand. He smiles.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Zayn wiggles his way to the rooftop of the hotel and sits down. He pulls his knees to his chest and wraps an arm around them, lifting a cigarette to his mouth and inhaling. Smoke curls through the air and Zayn tilts his head back, looks at the stars – feels infinitely small, infinitely insignificant.  
  
  
His phone vibrates and he peers at it. It’s from her – the last ten texts have all been from her, jumbles of words and cliché phrases and everything typical of a breakup. He sighs, because he knows what this text will read.  
  
  
 _I’m really sorry, Zayn,_ she writes. _It’s just been too hard lately. You’re too busy and I’m too lonely – I’d still like to be friends, yeah?  
  
  
_ He stares hard until her name has begun to blur, until the letters all stand spaced out, unfocused. P-E-R-R-I-E. Her laughter rings in his mind, echoes from the rooftop – light and airy, like a bell’s chime. He can feel the softness of her white-blonde hair on his calloused fingers, can taste the smoke of his own tongue mixed with her strawberry lip gloss and mint gum. He’s too busy, she’s too lonely.  
  
  
 _Yeah_ , Zayn texts back. Because Zayn’s never really been good at talking to people.  
  
  
He hears the door to the rooftop open and he doesn’t turn around. He knew it would only be a matter of time until he was caught – he missed bed checks, his shoes and jacket and cigarettes were gone from their usual placement in his room. He rolls his shoulders and takes another drag from his cigarette.  
  
  
“Been looking for you,” A soft voice comes from behind him and he looks over his shoulder. Harry stands there, curly hair a bit off. His thin frame is even smaller in a white long-sleeve that is too big for him. “Told Paul you’ve been off all day. I said I had a better chance of finding you than he did.”  
  
  
“Been here,” Zayn answers, breathes more smoke out into the air.  
  
  
“You alright?” Harry says, and he doesn’t really expect an answer. He sits down next to Zayn and throws an arm around him, rests his cheek on the top of Zayn’s head. His skin is warm, but Zayn can feel the goosebumps spreading all over his body.  
  
  
“I’ve seen better days,” Zayn stubs out his cigarette and throws it away from his body, hugs his knees tighter to his body. “Perrie’s gone.”  
  
  
“She’ll be back,” Harry nods firmly, squeezes Zayn’s shoulder. “They always come back.”  
  
  
And Zayn can see himself standing on that X Factor stage, small and mousy and watching as four other boys jumped all over each other. His fists are clenched and he wants to let out a giant _woop_ , wants to throw himself on top of the huddle and soak in the bond that these four boys already share.  
  
  
But he didn’t, and Harry had been the only one to see him standing there, unsure of what to do. They threw their arms around each other and walked, but Harry stayed behind – clapped Zayn on the back with a large grin and Zayn felt a piece of the walls he had built up to protect him chip and fall away.  
  
  
“I don’t want her to,” He says.  
  
  
“Then fuck her,” Harry grins.  
  
  
They sit out and talk aimlessly – Harry talks, Zayn mostly listens. Paul finally finds them after another cigarette and grabs them both by the scruff of their shirts, throws them into their room and shakes his head with a small smile playing on his lips.  
  
  
Harry’s drifting off to sleep and Zayn’s sitting on his bed, deleting the texts. He looks at Harry, soft edges and a slightly parted mouth.  
  
  
“Thanks,” he says.  
  
  
\--

  
Zayn knows there’s something wrong. Harry’s nowhere to be found after the show, and they’d all made plans to go out to eat once they’d finished performing. Backstage, there are four of them.Zayn’s eyes scan the darkness before he leaves as well.  
  
  
He was just a bit out of breath. It had happened before, and it would happen again – show-induced jitters, the nerves getting the best of him. He was only out of breath, and it wasn’t like he had botched the entire thing up. Just a little shakiness, a tremble in his voice.  
  
  
Zayn shoves his hands in his pockets and tears through backstage, throws the door to the spare dressing room that they never use open. They never use any of the spare things they get – prefer to share everything, relish in each experience together. It’s that way with clothes, with couches, with food. They do everything together.  
  
  
“Harry?” The room is dark and but there’s a bright light coming from the closet. Harry sits on the ground, his arms wrapped around his knees and his chin resting on his hand, eyebrows furrowed and bubblegum lips pressed together.  
  
  
Those green eyes have lost their sparkle.  
  
  
“You can’t do this every time,” Zayn reminds him, wriggles Harry’s phone free of his grasp and puts in his pocket. “It’s okay.”  
  
  
“It’s not much of a surprise anymore, really,” Harry says, voice low and gravelly. “Me fucking everything up.”  
  
  
Zayn doesn’t say anything, because Zayn’s never really been good at talking to people.  
  
  
“I mean, I’m a bit ostracized in a way, yeah?” Harry shoves his hair out of his eyes. “Been painted as the front man so long. Makes sense that I’d fuck it all up for us.”  
  
  
“That’s not true,” Zayn says. “You’re not fucking anything up.”  
  
  
“What if they stop listening? What if they stop liking us? What if it’s my fault, Zayn? What then? I’d have ruined it all for you guys. It’d be my fault.”  
  
  
Zayn wraps an arm around Harry, pulls him closer into his side and brushes his lips over his cheek. Harry buries his head in the crook of Zayn’s neck and he’s crying and Zayn can’t do anything but hold him, hold him and tell him it’ll be okay.  
  
  
“Don’t think that way,” He finally says. “It’s been us four from the start and it’ll be us four at the end.”  
  
  
He can feel the curve of Harry’s smile on his neck and tries not to shiver when Harry kisses him there. He stands up and extends a hand to Harry, and they walk out to find the rest of the band. Zayn makes sure to keep an arm around his shoulders, to give everyone blank looks when they ask in whispered voices why Harry’s eyes are red-rimmed.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
He doesn’t remember the last time he was this gone. It was just one of those nights; one of those nights where a joint seemed right and the drinks went down easily. It’s dark in the club and girls – all sorts of beautiful girls – keep buying him drinks. He’s never been one to refuse, to say no. He doesn’t say anything because Zayn’s never really been good at talking to people.  
  
  
They’re in Australia and he’s been feeling lonely, has been feeling lonely ever since she left. Not the kind of lonely that tears you apart and makes you feel hollow inside, not the type of lonely that makes you bitter and resentful of the world. Just the type of lonely that embraces you late at night when you’re cold, and you find yourself wishing you had someone to hold.  
  
  
His shirt is damp from the sweat and he’s seeing mirrored images of everyone – they come in two’s and three’s, a direct result of the fogginess of his mind. He has a blonde on one side and a brunette on the other, a pretty little redhead perched on his lap. He didn’t ask them to sit there; they just did. Zayn couldn’t say no.  
  
  
Harry laughs at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, head tilted back. The sparkle in those green eyes is back, and he smiles at Zayn over his shoulder as he heads towards the bar. Zayn finds a funny little tingling sensation from just behind his navel, feels himself drawn to wherever his curly-haired friend is going, orchestrated by invisible strings that are attached to his limbs.  
  
  
The girls are gone and it’s just him and Harry, him and Harry against the rest of the world. Those who don’t recognize them barely glance in their direction; those who do try to flirt their way into the section that has been reserved for the boys. They laugh and drink and dance some more, standing on tables and clumsily grabbing on to each other, hearts racing.  
  
  
It’s getting late and Zayn wants to smoke a cigarette before he leaves. Their bodyguards block off the back entrance and the boys shuffle into the back alleyway, and with trembling fingers Zayn lights his cigarette. The world is spinning, and Harry is leaning against the wall.  
  
  
He walks over and fixes the collar of Harry’s plaid shirt, brushing his fingers along the skin of Harry’s neck. Harry visibly shivers, bites his bottom lip and offers a smile. He’s looking at Zayn through his eyelashes and Zayn can’t control it anymore, can’t hold off. He runs his thumb across Harry’s lips, grasps his neck and leans in.  
  
  
The kiss is tentative, hesitant; just a light touch of the lips.  
  
  
No heat, no passion.  
  
  
He draws back, a bit of space between their mouths, and Harry touches his own lips before leaning forward, grabbing the back of Zayn’s head. The kiss is harder, more urgent, and Zayn puts a hand against the wall and grabs at the loops of Harry’s trousers. It’s anything but pretty; spit and tongues and clashing of teeth. Harry’s hand traces along the waistline of Zayn’s pants and his fingers are warm.  
  
  
The cigarette is long forgotten; it’s just two boys and an alleyway and a secret.


End file.
